


Un Jour à Montmartre

by theartistprince



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Stealing, almost fluffy, shit disturbing, so there's that, surprise! Montparnasse isn't an abusive asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 15:59:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theartistprince/pseuds/theartistprince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Éponine and Montparnasse head up to Montmartre to smoke cigarettes, roam around cemeteries and mock tourists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Un Jour à Montmartre

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lovelyleias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelyleias/gifts).



> For my lovely Azelma-Jondrette/ASongInMyHead

“Excuse me, sir.”

Montparnasse dragged his eyes up to the stranger who dared address him and raised an eyebrow. Éponine clutched onto the hand that was resting on her thigh. “Yes?” 

“Might you know how we can get to Notre Dame?” The man asked, a map of Paris clutched tightly in his hand. Montparnasse held back a cringe as the man horrifically mangled the pronunciation of “Notre Dame”.

Montparnasse sneered at him. “Don’t they teach you how to read maps in America?”

“What did he ask?” Éponine asked, looking questioningly at the stranger. 

Montparnasse dragged his eyes off the America and looked over at Éponine’s profile. “He wants to know how to get to Notre Dame so he can buy tacky souvenirs that not only insult his religion but our city.”

“Since when do you care about the sanctity of Catholicism or Paris, ‘Parnasse?” Éponine asked, her eyes still fixed on the stranger. “Padon for mon… petit ami, Monsieur,” Éponine began in broken English. “Ah, to go to Notre Dame, you stay on la Métro until you reach Cité station.”

The stranger nodded, giving Montparnasse a rueful look and muttering something about French stereotypes before wandering back to his family on the other side of the train.

Montparnasse glared at the stranger. “Who taught you English, your little boyfriend?” Montparnasse asked.

“You’re not the only one who likes scamming tourists, mon cher,” Éponine teased, using her free hand to clutch Montparnasse’s elbow. “Besides, I thought you were my boyfriend,” she teased, bumping his shoulder lightly.

Montparnasse fought to keep the smirk off of his face. Yes, Éponine might harbour a crush on that student friend of hers, but both she and Montparnasse knew that it would never work out. A boy like Marius Pontmercy wouldn’t be able to handle the firecracker that was Éponine.

It was doubtful that few beyond Montparnasse could.

“I did notice you didn’t tell him he’s on the wrong train,” Montparnasse stated, placing a light kiss on Éponine’s bare shoulder. He avoided talking about her declarations. Neither one of them were particularly good at expressing their emotions in a way that wasn’t physical. “You’re turning absolutely diabolical. Perhaps he’ll end up in Pigalle.”

“Is that where we’re going?” Éponine asked as she began to trace the thin bones in Montparnasse’s hand. “Do you want to buy us new toys? Or perhaps rent a playmate? I’m sure we wouldn’t need to venture this far from Saint-Michel if that’s your intention.”

“You know better than most that I’m not inclined to share,” Montparnasse commented, a soft growl lacing his tone. “We’re not going to Pigalle, we’re going to wander around Montmartre.”

“Montmartre? Why?” Éponine asked, pulling away slightly in confusion.

Montparnasse placed his hand more firmly on Éponine’s thigh to urge her to move closer to him again. “You’re the one who said you wished you could experience Paris like a tourist and God knows that I wouldn’t be able to handle the souvenir pushers at the Eiffel Tower or the Louvre.”

“I said that after sex,” Éponine replied, allowing herself to be pulled closer to Montparnasse. “I didn’t think you were even listening.”

Montparnasse merely shrugged and turned his eyes forward, refusing to respond to the implied question in Éponine’s statement.

Didn’t she know by now that he always listened to her? Even when he didn’t heed her advice, he still listened to her and Montparnasse never listened to anyone.

As they pulled into Abbesses, Montparnasse clutched Éponine’s hand tightly as he pulled her off the train and into the busy station. There were hords of people streaming through, making Montparnasse grit his teeth in frustration.

He hated crowds.

The American family were still glued in their seats, anxiously awaiting Cité station. Montparnasse saluted them sarcastically as he passed.  
   
They would be waiting for a while.

Éponine and Montparnasse walked with purpose through the station, stepping over the panhandlers that lined the walls. Montparnasse sneered at them, annoyed with the clashing genres of their music that flooded through the underground tunnels of the Métro.

Once they got outside, Éponine rummaged in the pocket of her leather jacket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. Montparnasse knew that Éponine didn’t usually have the money to buy cigarettes, meaning she likely pilfered the pack from a one of the many people running through the subway station.

“It’s been a long time since I was in Montmartre,” she commented, fishing two cigarettes out of the pack. Montparnasse rummaged around in the pocket of his jeans for his lighter. “It’s amazing how you can live in one of the most popular, most culturally significant cities in the world and see so little of it every day.”

Montparnasse lit their cigarettes. “The tourists don’t know Paris like we do,” he replied, taking a drag. “They see lights and art where we see crime and poverty. I’m sure it would be the same if we lived in London or New York City.”

Frowning, Éponine didn’t respond but allowed Montparnasse to grip her hand to weave her through the narrow streets of Montmartre. Montparnasse walked at a startling pace, his long legs striding confidently past people. Éponine had long since learned to either catch up or be left behind.

It was a few minutes before they came to what evidently Montparnasse believed was an appropriate location for a date.

(Neither of them would call it that, but deep down, they both knew.)

“A cemetery?” Éponine asked incredulously, pulling her hand free from Montparnasse’s. She flicked her cigarette in the street, ignoring the dirty glance from a passing stranger.

“It’s famous,” Montparnasse responded shortly before walking past the iron wrought gates, dropping his cigarette next to some flowers. Éponine crushed the flame out with the heel of her boot before sighing and following him through down the small path lined with seemingly-ancient graves.

She really shouldn’t have been surprised. Every outing with Montparnasse generally verged on the ridiculous.

Montparnasse paused in front of a grave reading “Francesca ‘Fanny’ Cerrito” and plucked a lily off her tomb, thrusting it at Éponine. “Don’t say I never give you anything,” Montparnasse said with a grin before bounding down the rows of graves, carefully examining the eccentricities of each one that caught his attention.

Twirling the flower in her hand, Éponine watched Montparnasse carefully. There were few things in the world that caught Montparnasse’s attention. Perhaps a rich tourist he could rob or a store with limited security, but there was little he truly studied. It was odd to see him so fascinated with something non-criminal.

Though Éponine wasn’t that surprised that his interest was associated with death.

She finally caught up to him, carefully looking at the the final resting place of Vaslav Nijinsky. “Do you know who he was?” Éponine asked, raking her eyes across the peculiar puppet that sat atop the tomb.

“Not a clue,” Montparnasse replied before gripping Éponine’s arm and pushing her towards the grave. “I’m going to take a picture of you with it,” he stated firmly before pulling his (stolen) iPhone out of his pocket.

Éponine shook her head. “Don’t you think taking pictures with gravestones is a little… distasteful?” She asked, peaking at the stone puppet over her shoulder. 

“Tourists do it in Cimetière du Père-Lachaise all the time,” Montparnasse countered, pointing his phone at her.

Éponine sighed and gently knelt down next to the grave, the stolen lily still clutched in her hand. She smiled, though the gesture felt odd in a cemetery.

It was only a moment before Montparnasse snapped the picture and turned on the heel of his Dr. Marten to walk to the next grave. 

Éponine followed him, far less interested in the graves of a bunch of dead people she didn’t know than he was. Instead, her attention was drawn to a trio of young women stopped to ogle Montparnasse for far longer than was strictly necessary. 

Rolling her eyes, Éponine caught up with Montparnasse, who was carefully examining the grave of Adolphe Adam. Éponine slipped her hand down Montparnasse’s back, drawing his attention to her. 

He raised an eyebrow as he pulled himself up to his full height. He towered over Éponine, her head barely reaching his shoulder even with the extra lift of her army boots. He dragged the back of his hand down her cheek, the scabs and cuts that littered his hand rough on her face.

“Those British girls over there are staring at you,” Éponine informed him, bringing her free hand to clutch at the neck of his white v-neck.

Montparnasse’s eyes didn’t leave Éponine’s as he smirked. “I’m used to girls staring at me,” he informed her, brushing his thumb against her lower lip. “You should be too.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t stake my claim,” Éponine teased lightly, leaning her weight into him.

“I don’t belong to anybody,” Montparnasse scoffed.

Éponine merely smiled serenely up at him. “Neither do I.”

They were both lying.

The girls forgotten, Montparnasse slung his arm around Éponine’s shoulders, leading her towards the exit. Éponine laced her arm around his thin waist, clutching at his leather jacket. 

They walked towards Boulevard de Clichy when an interesting thought struck Éponine. She stopped in front of a tacky souvenir store, pulling Montparnasse to her by the back of his coat.

“Want to play jue juste?” She asked, a sly grin coming to her face.

Montparnasse glanced into the shop Éponine picked and cocked an eyebrow. Without saying a word, he walked through the door, trusting Éponine to follow him.

The rules of jue juste were simple, even if it was rather ironically named. It was devised when Monparnasse was 16 and Éponine was only 14. The basic principle was that whichever one could steal the most lavish item they could get their hands on without getting caught got to tell the other one what to do for the rest of the day.

Needless to say, there were some pretty interesting results.

The store was cramped, covered in tacky merchandise which almost caused one to be ashamed of being Parisian. Were Moulin Rouge snow globes and t-shirts proclaiming “Paris Je T’Aime” really that interesting to tourists? 

They were only in the shop for about five minutes before striding out the door. Éponine ducked into an alley way. 

Montparnasse leaned against the brick, graffiti-covered wall, looking far too pleased with himself for Éponine’s liking. She longed to wipe that smirk off his face. 

“On the count of three?” Éponine asked, reaching in her bag to clutch around the item she had stolen.

“Whenever you’re ready to lose,” Montparnasse replied, flashing his infuriatingly white teeth at her. “Ma chere,” he added in a drawl, only reenforcing Éponine’s drive to win.

“Un,” Éponine started, holding her prize tighter.

“Deux,” Montparnasse added, rolling his eyes slightly once he realized that Éponine wasn’t going to continue if he didn’t play along with her whims. He still reached into his coat pocket 

“Trois!” Éponine exclaimed, pulling her item out of her bag and holding it proudly in front of her for Montparnasse.

There was a brief silence before Montparnasse sighed. “Fuck,” he muttered.

In Éponine’s hand rested a small sterling silver necklace with a charm of the Eiffel Tower and a small heart dangling in the middle.

The Le Chat Noir business card case Montparnasse offered was far less impressive in comparison. 

“How did you manage that find?” Montparnasse asked, plucking the necklace out of Éponine’s palm. The attached price tag read €50, making it a contender for the most expensive item either of them had ever stolen during jue juste. 

Éponine shrugged. “No one locked the jewellery case,” she explained, grinning wildly at Montparnasse. There was nothing Éponine loved more than winning. If Montparnasse didn’t hate losing so much, he might have even thrown their games just to see the look of self-satisfaction settle in her eyes.

Éponine rested one boot-clad foot against the brick wall as she leaned against it. She motioned for Montparnasse to come closer to her. “You’re mine,” she proclaimed, tugging on his coat’s lapels once he was close enough to her.

Montparnasse didn’t deny her claim as he bent down to her face. One of his arms rested above her on the wall. “What do you want from me?” He asked softly, his breath ruffling her bangs slightly.

“Well,” Éponine began, smoothing his long black fringe away from his face, gripping the ends slightly as her fingers coursed through his hair. “You could begin by kissing me.”

For once, Montparnasse decided to play by the rules and complied with her request.

He met her lips firmly, bringing the arm that was supporting him against the wall down to rest on her waist under her coat. Montparnasse nipped at her lower lip, urging her to part her lips. She smiled against his mouth before complying with his silent request, pulling him closer to her.

“I thought you wanted to do what tourists do in Paris,” Montparnasse muttered as he trailed small kisses across her jaw.

“Don’t they come to this town for romance?” Éponine asked, gasping slightly as Montparnasse bit a sensitive area near her collarbone.

Montparnasse laughed, the vibrations coursing through Éponine. “Only you would consider making out in an alley romance, ‘Ponine,” Montparnasse commented.

Lacing her fingers through the hair at the nape of Montparnasse’s neck, Éponine sighed as he began to kiss her neck again. “I think we have very similar ideas about romance, ‘Parnasse,” she replied.

Éponine felt his hands meet at the back of her neck before a cold chain fell against her chest. 

Pulling back from her neck for a moment, Montparnasse rested his forehead against Éponine’s. He ran one of his thin fingers against the chain, coming to rest against the heart on the chain.

“What do you want from me now?” He muttered, his hand trailing south. He traced a small hickey he had left across the swell of her breast earlier that day, which barely dipped past the neckline of her grey cotton dressed.

Éponine skimmed her hand down Montparnasse’s torso before she clutched the waistband of his jeans. “I want a lot from you,” Éponine replied, flicking her eyes up to meet his. “But they’re probably best suited for your bedroom,” Éponine finished before slipping out of Montparnasse’s grip and walking towards the Métro.

Montparnasse groaned loudly. 

Something told him that the train ride back to Saint-Michel was going to be far longer than the ride to Montmartre.


End file.
